


Night Before the Morning After

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=48122536#t48122536">For this kinkmeme prompt.</a> Anon wanted Mycroft/John engagement sex. Nothing particularly profound here, guys, sex and fluff.<br/>Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of S1<br/>Warnings: Sexual content, implied character death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Before the Morning After

What John loves the most about Mycroft, really, are the parts that nobody but he gets to see.

Murray, Stamford and Lestrade tried to throw them a stag do, but got hung up on just what sort of entertainment should be hired for them, so they settled on a few drinks and cheesy bits at 221B instead; they invited Clara and Harry, Sarah, Molly, Sally, and Anthea and Mrs Hudson, and had a long evening of chatting and laughing and a bit of crying, but it's been three years now, and life – John knows all too well that life goes on, and you have to carry the weight of the past with you, and that those whom we love are never really dead to us.

When Murray staggers up and rips off a rendition of "Danny Boy" that has even _Mycroft_ close to tears (though only John sees it), John knows it's time to leave, even if Murray's never been closer to Ireland than Brighton.

John and Mycroft stumble down the stairs and into the street where, as per usual, a sleek black car awaits them. John's agreed to – after the wedding – move into Mycroft's posh townhouse, leaving 221B Baker Street as an flat for Molly after Moriarty destroyed her block in one of his "gas explosions."

The mood in the car is quiet and Mycroft's hand sneaks into John's – and this is the part of the evening that John loves the most, as Mycroft's fingers brush across John's knuckles, pulling his hand up to his lips.

Mycroft, for all that he has a mastery of the English language that puts John's education to shame, never quite manages to say the three small words that John would want to hear. But it's fine – it's all fine, as John once said – because in that small gesture, done in the privacy of the back of the car, he hears them.

As they were leaving, Lestrade had clapped them on the shoulders and reminded them to behave themselves on the night before their wedding.

"Is that a tradition?" John asked.

Lestrade shrugged.

"My Ellie made me wait a _week_ before the wedding – and we was living together – something about… I don't know, daft, I thought, women, eh?" He'd ended with a sheepish laugh.

Now, in the darkness of the car, John wonders if Mycroft…

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Mycroft murmurs against John's knuckles. "Tonight of all nights is the night I want to make love to you, or more specifically…" he trails off as the car reaches their home – John's new home.

Inside, their kisses are tentative at first – another thing John loves about him he's so _careful_ – but then they grow in passion and need. John's tabulated the kinds of kisses he shares with Mycroft: tentative, welcoming, deep and needy, kisses of adoration, kisses of joy, and kisses of pain. The tentative kisses turn deep and needy, desperate, as Mycroft cradles John's face in his hands, invading his mouth with his tongue, swallowing John's moan of surprise.

John feels the desperation in his touch, feels the need, and wonders if the specter of Sherlock will always haunt them, especially on nights like this. John feels the same way – haunted by the loss of his friend and flat mate, haunted by the loss of the brother of the love of his life – and he yearns to give Mycroft peace, just as he longs for the same from him.

It's a delicate line they walk, each aware, each choosing to grow closer through the pain and the memory of the one who was lost to them over what John termed _The Reichenbach Fall_ in his last blog entry.

From tentative to desperate to needy, John and Mycroft climb the stairs to what will be their bedroom, to what has been their bedroom now for a year, to what will also be _John's_ bedroom after tomorrow, kissing, a tangle of lips and teeth and tongue, hands tugging at trousers and shirts and jumpers.

Mycroft propels John to his bed – their bed – walking him backwards until John puts his foot behind Mycroft's and spins them, forcing him to fall back onto the duvet.

Mycroft chuckles as John backs away, peeling off his shirt and vest and taking a moment to deal with his shoes. John hears the intake of breath as he bends to Mycroft's feet, taking off his socks and then kissing his way up his legs, licking and biting his thighs as they fall apart.

"John," Mycroft groans as John takes his cock into his mouth. "John, I want you to… I want you to fuck me."

John raises his head – Mycroft, of all people – well, this is the man who is always in control, always so damn precise about everything, always so… Mycroft. And he rarely uses bad language (whereas John had learned to leap before he looks, to ignore messes in the kitchen, to surrender to Mycroft's hands and lips and tongue and cock while he whispers filthy obscenities into Mycroft's ear until he comes).

"Please, John." Mycroft allows his thighs to fall apart as he reaches for the lubricant and condoms. "Please," he whispers again.

John had already been hard, and this request goes straight to his cock.

"Oh, God, yes."

And he's on Mycroft in an instant, kissing him hungrily, biting at his nipple, winding his hands in his as he rubs their cocks together, groaning at the heat of skin and desire and sweat and lust.

"John…"

"Impatient?" John asks with a grin. It's a side of Mycroft that he has seen only once before – needy, impatient, surrendering to his body's desires.

Not to delay further, John takes the lube and carefully prepares his lover: one finger, two. A brush across the prostate sends Mycroft's eyes back into his head, his fingers clutching the sheets.

"Are you ready?" John asks him, stopping to stroke himself as he rolls on the condom. "Turn over."

"No," Mycroft says. "I want… I want to watch you come apart above me."

"Mycroft…" His name is a whisper, a prayer.

"John…"

Helpless to resist the pull of his body and his desires, John kneels before him, gently – so gently – sliding home. Mycroft keens and John catches his breath.

"Too much?" he asks.

"God… no, move… please. God… I love…" John begins to move and as he does so, reaches down to stroke Mycroft's cock.

"God, you feel so good," John murmurs, sliding his hips against him.

"John… John… John…" Mycroft groans as John speeds up, thrusting into him, trying to keep pace with his hand as he feels Mycroft tighten around him, drawing him closer, impossibly closer.

"Mycr-" John intends to warn him, pulling at his cock as his climax approaches, but Mycroft comes suddenly with a cry and a breathed,

"John… My love, I love… God, I love you please, God…"

And it's too much and John is coming and coming and coming, his head thrown back, his hands sliding up to Mycroft's knees, gasping and overwhelmed.

In the aftermath, they lie together, breathless and sweating, watching each other carefully, hands entwined.

"All right?" John asks, eventually.

Mycroft smiles.

"More than all right, my beloved, my love, my _John_."

And they sleep, for they will be married on the morrow.

* * *

* * *

EPILOGUE: And they Lived Happily?

The wedding, everyone agreed, was by far the social event of the season. Despite the sense of impending doom that John woke up with, everything went wonderfully.

Except for the slight interruption halfway through the ceremony when the man whom they'd all thought had died three years ago stalked into the hall and demanded to know what the hell was going on. Naturally everyone was stunned – shocked, even. Except, perhaps… John stole a look at Mycroft as Sherlock billowed down the aisle, a bit gaunter than before, his hair a shaggy tangle, his face bearded, but his fiancé – almost-husband – looked simply annoyed.

And every suspicion John had had clicked in his head.

"Mycroft!" he hissed. "Did you…"

"Of course he did, John," Sherlock drawled, sprawling against the wall behind them. "What he _didn't_ do was inform his own _brother_ that he'd poached his flat mate."

"I didn't poach your flat mate," Mycroft snapped.

The altercation between the brothers went downhill rather rapidly from there until John finally stepped in and told Sherlock that he _was_ marrying his brother, thank you very much, and he could either stand there quietly like a good Best Man, or he could, in fact, jump off a cliff again.

Sherlock glowered and then stood meekly beside John and Mycroft and bore witness to their marriage with only a few comments that were the opposite of polite.

So, the two were joined in marriage and the reception became a wedding reception _cum_ welcome home party, wherein Lestrade and Sarah got quite drunk and shagged each other in the ladies', and Sherlock spent the evening antagonizing Molly until she threw her drink in his face and informed him that he was going to have to find a new place to live, because 221B was _hers_.

What happened when Mycroft and John returned to their home (now, John could feel it was _his_ home, too), and found Sherlock sprawled on the sofa in Mycroft's study, perusing classified documents and marking them up with red pen and issuing loud and derisive commentary – well, that is better left as a story for another day.

Rest assured, John and Mycroft were at pains _not_ to have sex with each other that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money, just a bit of harmless fun. Special thanks to the ladies who make my commas and em dashes come to life: annietalbot, bluestocking79, and pyjamapants


End file.
